


Road Rage

by officepark



Series: Transmission [1]
Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Some Humor, Trans Male Character, Trans V, Vaginal Fingering, reckless driving smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officepark/pseuds/officepark
Summary: The only requirement for a driver’s license in Night City is a pulse, and even that some people can fake. V attempts to mitigate his road rage with the Zen Master’s teachings about the elements and meditation or whatever. Johnny’s got other ideas.
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/Male V, Johnny Silverhand/V
Series: Transmission [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081421
Comments: 12
Kudos: 175





	Road Rage

**Author's Note:**

> Just a head's up, V is a trans man, and in this fic I use words for his genitals like clit, cunt, etc.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” V mutters under his breath. He slams his palm onto the Caliburn’s horn as another car swerves into the right lane to narrowly escape his 110-mile-an-hour fury. Seconds later, they’re a blip behind him, but still, he seethes, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

He inhales through his nose, keeping his eyes on the road. _Water_ , he thinks. _Just gotta think about water. Or air, or somethin’._ What was it that Zen Master said? Something about the ‘primordial breath of life’? Water… flowing? Nothing about that seems particularly zen or helpful when some fucker cuts him off out of nowhere. V grits his teeth.

“What, no choice words for that chud-head?”

V doesn’t have to look over to the passenger seat to know Johnny’s smirking at him. At least he’s too tall to kick his feet up on the dash. It wouldn’t really matter, him being stuck inside V’s head and all, but the sight of it would be pretty damn annoying. 

V adjusts his grip on the wheel, pressing his foot back down on the gas. “Don’t need ‘em,” he says. “I’m zen about it.”

Johnny laughs, the sound sticking in his throat. “No, you’re not. You’re about to burst a damn blood vessel like you always are,” he says. He leans forward in his seat, baiting V to turn and look at him. V doesn’t take it, in favor of not missing his exit.

“I’m fine,” V snaps. Night City’s skyline blurs past them. 

“You’re _zen_ like I’m warm and fuzzy,” Johnny continues. V can feel his eyes on him.

“I had those meditation lessons,” he mutters. He doesn’t feel like arguing about this. Johnny Silverhand wouldn’t know mindfulness if it bit him on the ass and told him to breathe deeply.

“You’re gonna need a whole lot more than meditation to calm your road rage, V,” Johnny says. “Maybe a sedative. Or a subway card.”

“I can handle my shit.”

“Sure you can,” Johnny says, “Doesn’t change the fact that everyone in this city drives like they have it in for your paint job, does it?”

V says nothing.

Water flowing down from a little brook, high in a mountain, somewhere far away from here. A gentle stream carrying every angry little impulse away like dead leaves. Water braking in front of him on the motherfucking highway, who _stops_ out of an exit on the motherfucking highway? 

V slams on the brakes, the Caliburn protesting, because she likes to go fast, but damn if she doesn’t hate to stop. His fender kisses the other car’s bumper, coupled with a honk from the immovable object in front of him. V barely suppresses a growl.

“That’s it,” Johnny purrs, and V recognizes a new note in his voice, something other than egging him on for the sake of seeing him pissed off. It pricks up the hairs on the back of his neck. V throws him a look, maneuvering the Caliburn onto the narrow shoulder of the exit, around the stationary piece of shit in his way, and back onto the highway. 

“What’s it?” V asks. The bait is obvious, but he’s learned that, with Johnny, sometimes it’s better to take the bait to avoid getting his ear talked off.

“It’s better to just be angry about it,” Johnny says easily. He leans back in his seat to the best of his ability, folding his arms behind his head. “Don’t fool yourself, V, you’re _pissed_.”

V adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, keeping his eyes focused on the road. “So what?” he says. “Not my fault they give a license to any gonk in the city with two brain cells to rub together.” He presses down on the gas, letting the Caliburn do what she does best: go fast.

“Right,” Johnny says, and V can hear the smirk dripping off the word. 

He seems to let the traffic do his work for him then, as V pulls up to an intersection. One of those bitsy little smart cars turns left from the right lane, crossing lazily in front of V, who needs to swerve out of the way to avoid making it a bitsy little pancake. 

“Fuck!” V exclaims, laying on the horn. “What the fuck is the matter with you!? Ever heard of a goddamn blinker? Turn lane?”

Johnny, for his part, seems thrilled. “They can’t hear you,” he says through a grin.

“I know they can’t fuckin’ hear me!” V snaps back. He turns sharply onto the next street, only having to brake hard when the cars in front of him stop for seemingly no reason at all. No light, no one in front of them, just– stopped. He grits his teeth with a low growl.

“Y’know,” Johnny murmurs, “these morons are gonna end up positively ruining your baby’s transmission one of these days, all the stopping and going they make you do.”  
  
“Fuck off.”

“Yeah, worked up is a good look on you,” Johnny muses.

V almost doesn’t notice at first, the touch is so distant and fuzzy, like a dream, or maybe more like trying to pick something up when your hand’s asleep. After a moment, the pressure on his thigh firms up, and his eyes dart down to see that Johnny’s hand has taken up residence there. His fingertips graze the seam of V’s pants, his thumb rubbing slow circles where V’s thigh meets his hip. He presses down on the sensitive spot, pushing his luck.

V hisses, reflexively tightening his grip on the wheel. “The hell are you up to?” he demands, weaving around traffic. His attention is admittedly divided, and he swerves belatedly out of the wrong lane before an oncoming truck does something less than pleasant to the front end of the Caliburn. He ignores the blare of the truck’s horn as Johnny’s hand moves further in on his thigh, squeezing lightly.

Johnny just shushes him. “Eyes on the road, hotrod,” he says.

His fingers find their way between V’s thighs, rubbing firm against his hardening clit through his pants. V sucks in a breath, doing his best to keep the Caliburn on a straight and steady path down the street. He zips by a pedestrian who seems to have forgotten what the sidewalk is for, instead walking on the side of the road like he’s some kinda one-man parade. V can’t hear the string of expletives thrown at him, the radio blasting hard industrial and the Caliburn already too far away.

V’s all but forgotten where they were even going in the first place, so he takes the next exit that will get them out of the city– only, he takes the wrong turn and ends up face to face with another car coming down what turns out to be an off-ramp. “Shit,” V breathes, surprised to hear his own voice sound ragged around the edges but no less full of contempt for Night City’s infrastructure. It earns him a rapid increase in Johnny’s pace, if only for a minute, as he puts the Caliburn in reverse and stifles a groan. 

He turns back onto the road to get to the actual exit that’ll take them out toward the Badlands. The fewer cars to swerve into while Johnny’s experimenting with whatever _this_ is, the better. The man in question pulls his hand back slightly, and V lifts his hips up toward his hand in spite of himself. He waits his turn to merge onto the highway behind a few other cars.

Johnny huffs out a dry laugh. “Takin’ it careful now, huh?” he says, trailing his fingers up to V’s waistband. “You’re driving like you abide by the rules of the road all of the sudden. How’s about you pick up the pace a little.”

V mutters a curse, turning onto the median and around the other cars. Johnny’s thumb strokes the edge of V’s waistband, tickling his stomach. V can’t help but let a little noise escape the back of his throat from the anticipation. His foot to the gas, the Caliburn quickly gains speed down the highway.

Satisfied, Johnny removes his hand entirely to pry one of V’s hands off the steering wheel by his wrist. He guides him back to his pants. “Undo these for me, would ya?”

V hesitates. For a moment he’d forgotten Johnny wasn’t able to himself. Reality sinks in, reminding him that Johnny’s just a complicated series of ones and zeroes, and a pain in his ass on the best of days. He thumbs the button of his trousers, knowing that if he slips it undone, he’s granting permission. He’s participating. 

“V,” Johnny prompts, voice low. His hand is still wrapped around V’s wrist, but his grip isn’t tight, just present. Hearing his name said like that is what does it. V unfastens the button and tugs down on the zipper, maybe a little less graceful or sexy than his top form. To make up for it, V presses hard on the gas, sending the Caliburn flying down the far left lane.

“Atta boy,” Johnny murmurs.

He lets go of V’s wrist, delivering it back to the steering wheel, then slides his hand down V’s pants. His fingers swipe down to V’s slick hole, then back up to his clit, two fingers on either side of it to work it in maddeningly slow circles. V bites his lip, determined not to let a handjob of all things be his undoing. Johnny doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. 

Even so, his vision seems to haze over as Johnny rubs him, tugging delicately at the little cock. The tips of his fingers come together to rub at its exposed head, and V involuntarily bucks into Johnny’s hand, a groan making its way out of his chest unbidden.

Johnny lets out a satisfied chuckle, leaning over into V’s space. Like his hand on his thigh, at first his lips are fuzzy and out of focus, then become clear and material as he kisses and nibbles at V’s ear. His hand doesn’t let up, stroking skillfully while V does his best to chase Johnny’s hand in his seat. His foot on the gas pedal follows the rhythm of his hips, lurching the Caliburn faster, allowing it to slow, then faster again.

“Expected you’d make more noise, chatty as you are,” Johnny hums into his ear, and V swears he can feel his breath, hot and damp. V grunts, but he can’t find the words to get him to shut up. Johnny’s teeth tug on his pierced earlobe, enveloping it with his lips before pulling away with a soft, wet noise. V can’t help the keening sound that leaves him. “That’s more like it.”

As the cityscape gives way to desert hills and rock formations, Johnny’s lips move away from V’s ear, down his jaw and neck. What cars there are swerve away from the Caliburn’s path, lucky for its driver, his vision half-obscured by Johnny’s hair.

Johnny’s fingers abandon V’s hard clit, drawing out a humiliating whine from V. Johnny even raises his head in surprise, looking V in the eyes before huffing a short laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You might like it.”

His fingers slide down V’s dripping cunt, slicking themselves up and teasing at his entrance. V twists in his seat, whining again as he tries to buck his hips right so that Johnny’s fingers will slide into him. Johnny shushes him, drawing his fingers back when V presses onto them to rub circles around the head of his clit again.

V thunks his head back into the headrest with a moan, and Johnny takes the opportunity to bite and suck hard at his throat. Absently V wonders if it’ll leave a mark, and if it does, will anyone else be able to see it? Will it be just for him, hickeys all in his head?

Johnny cuts off his existential line of thought when he finally, _finally_ slips his fingers into his wet heat. He curls them inside him like he knows right where to look, and, for all V knows, he just might. He works his fingers in him as if he knows how it should feel. No frantic jamming in and out, but a firm pressure stroking at the spot that makes V’s toes curl in his boots.

 _“_ Jesus Christ, Johnny,” V exhales, “where’d you get good at this?”

“What, them other boys do you dirty?” Johnny hums against V’s throat.

“Well,” V says, breath hitching as Johnny works his fingers faster, seemingly just to see what effect it’ll have on his voice, “yeah.”

Johnny trails little bites from V’s neck toward his shoulder. “I’m allowed some depth,” he says.

V lets him have his depth, content to rock his hips on Johnny’s fingers while the Caliburn carries them further into the desert. Johnny presses the heel of his palm against V’s clit, and V greedily thrusts up into it for the friction and heat. 

His head starts swimming, breathing heavily and moaning now that the floodgates are open. He grinds down on Johnny’s fingers eagerly, trusting that Johnny won’t let up, that Johnny will take him over the edge, that Johnny knows what to do to send stars across his vision and make his legs shake and, “Oh god, fuck, Johnny–”

“That mean you’re close?”

“Fuck–”

“Better not crash, then.”

V clings to the steering wheel, his last shred of focus devoted to making sure the Caliburn stays on the road. Johnny keeps his pace, fluttering his fingers inside him and rolling his wrist to give V just a little more pressure on his clit. V squeezes around Johnny’s fingers, desperate for release.

A distant pressure distracts him momentarily until he realizes it’s Johnny’s metal fingers, stroking up the back of his skull and tugging on his hair. He pulls harder, yanking V’s head back to bare his throat and pull his eyes off of the road. His lips and teeth are on V’s neck in an instant, biting and sucking as V gasps, praying to whatever’s up there that this orgasm isn’t his last.

The quilted ceiling of the Caliburn blurs. V lets himself sink into the pleasure of Johnny’s fingers, Johnny’s mouth, Johnny’s tight grip on his hair, the sick thrill of racing down the highway blind. Johnny’s name is leaving his lips when he cums, all of it too much, muscles spasming and contracting. V rides the waves of pleasure, finally taking his foot off of the gas and slowly rocking on Johnny’s fingers.

Johnny releases his grip on V’s hair, but V lets his head stay tipped back and his eyes closed as the Caliburn slows on the desert road. Metal fingers gently stroke the back of his head, and slowly his breathing evens out. The Caliburn stalls.

Johnny pulls his fingers out, and V whines again. “Needy,” Johnny remarks. 

He draws his fingers up to V’s mouth and taps gently, the slick sticking to his lips. V meets his eyes with lazy irritation but swipes his tongue across his lips anyway. Johnny takes it as permission to press his fingers back to V’s lips, and V finds himself obeying, sucking the taste of himself off of Johnny’s fingers, their eyes locked.

Johnny seems to swallow a groan, his eyes flickering from V’s to his mouth. He pulls back his fingers, taking V’s chin firmly to pull him toward him, before he stops himself short. 

“Should park us somewhere other than the middle of the highway,” he says, dropping V’s chin and leaning back in the passenger seat. His left hand remains at the nape of V’s neck.

V groans, adjusting his now heavy limbs and sitting up a bit straighter. “Ever indulged in an afterglow?” he bites.

“Just drive, hotrod,” Johnny says.

With a sigh, V sets the Caliburn in motion again. He finds a desert trail to turn off onto, then opts for no trail at all. Johnny massages the back of his neck, and it’s tempting to just let his head loll forward and let the Caliburn crash into whatever shrubs and rocks happen to be in their path. The Caliburn doesn’t love offroading it, but she doesn’t need to suffer long. V’s not choosy when he parks them behind a low ridge. It’ll do.

The sun hangs low in the sky. V lets himself relax into Johnny’s massage, and his eyes flutter closed. Johnny works from his neck to his shoulder, taking his time with the knots V’s earned from his 20-hour workdays. V could just slip away like this.

Johnny’s voice rouses him, though it’s softer than it typically is. “Meditating again?”

“M’here,” V murmurs, lifting his head.

Johnny huffs a laugh, squeezing at the nape of his neck again. “You go back wherever you were,” he says.

V doesn’t try to parse the sudden tenderness, or even whatever it was that happened back on the highway. It just doesn’t seem as important as letting himself take a minute to close his eyes and let Johnny’s hand guide him to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, the Caliburn is a sexy car, and the NPCs (non-player cars) in Night City are a goddamn nightmare. I started this before I finished the Chippin' In sidequest, but now that I have an even more important car for Johnny and V to hook up in, well. Who knows? Part 2? :^)


End file.
